Straitjacket
by Kioasakka
Summary: Alice is thrown into a madhouse upon her return to Overland, and Tarrant is determined to save her and bring her back home. Connected by their dreams, he ponders how to find her; but Jabberwock blood has nasty side effects, and time is running out. AxH
1. Prologue

Author's Note: So I happen to share the rather common feeling that the end of Tim Burton's otherwise brilliant 'Alice in Wonderland' was complete shit. Seriously, what the hell were they thinking? Anyway, after reading several angry forum posts wandering around the net, I came up with the idea for this story: Alice _does _go back, and she says everything she says to everyone, but instead of them being understanding of her (which they would not have been in that time period), they instead do what _would_ have been done in that time period and throw her into an insane asylum. Now she's screwed herself over and is stuck in solitary confinement unless her Hatter decides to come rescue her.

Hope you enjoy. :)

—

Prologue

—

Leaving was her first mistake.

Not turning right around and diving back into the rabbit hole was her second.

Of course, she knew nothing of the price she would have to pay for her decision to return to London—had she known, the aforementioned mistakes would surely not have been made.

It couldn't have really been _entirely_ her fault—in her defense, the effects of Jabberwock blood on an Otherwordler were unknown and could have surely contributed to her lowered inhibitions and preposterous behavior. But she had willingly drunk it in the first place, after willingly deciding she ought to return home.

"There are questions I have to answer," she'd told him, the man whom she secretly adored and wished to spend her life with. "Things I have to do."

It was a lie.

There were no questions she had in mind that needed answering, nor were there any things she felt she was obligated or even wanted to do. Her words, her _lie,_ had painted his lips into a frown and burned the back of his eyes, and she'd drunk the vibrantly purple blood to affirm her lie and seal a deal she never needed nor wanted to make.

Going down, the Jabberwock blood had an almost slippery consistency, and warmed her throat like hot tea. She'd made the wish—_take me home_—and smiled, actually _smiled _at him, as if she had not just struck his cheek with her ugly gesture and her senseless_ lie._

She'd fully intended to remember_ him, _if nothing or no one else. And yet when she found her fingers caked with dirt as she pulled the last of her out of the rabbit hole, it was all a dim recollection in the back of her mind, like a dream that slips further out of remembrance the harder one tries to grasp it.

She'd been foolish not to look back. For surely just the _sight_ of the rabbit hole should have been enough to trigger a memory: _him,_ with his wild orange hair and his ever-changing eyes, and the love and grief that had smoldered in them as she broke his fragile heart with her selfish, senseless whim. But alas, it would not be so, for she then barely recalled even climbing out of the rabbit hole mere moments ago; and then she was walking back briskly along a path she remembered not and forgot as soon as she passed through it; and then she was back where she had started many turns of the sun ago—or, hadn't it only been one tick of the hour hand?

And yet, when her state and very appearance were called into question, to which she replied, "I fell down a hole and hit my head"—the confidence she'd gained in the world she could not remember lingered enough to weave foolish, deadly words, more words that would haunt her in the too-near future.

"I'm sorry, Hamish," she said, to none else but the lord whom everyone meant her to wed, "I can't marry you." As if enjoying her foolishness and thinking herself titillating, she had the audacity to add, "You're not the right man for me." As if she thought she in fact had a say in whether or not she would marry the miserable man! As if she thought herself above him and in some position where she had the _choice_ to refuse his marriage proposal! Atrocious and incredulous as these words were already, she had even further audacity to add, offhandedly, for everyone to hear: "And there's that trouble with your digestion."

All were frozen in shock at the cheek displayed by this_ lower-class girl_—who did she think she was?—and so none stopped her as she moved forth and continued to seal her fate.

In her mind, her sister smiled, and was understanding when she took her hands and said, "I love you, Margaret. But this is _my_ life." And the girl had the nerve to say, "_I'll_ decide what to do with it."

The shock was palpable; several women fainted, and disdainful sniffs rang throughout the crowd. Hushed murmurs and whispers began, sounding quite along the lines of: "This girl is _mad._" After all, what right had _she_ to_ decide her own life?_ Who was _she_ to have such an _unthinkable privilege?_

And she would simply not stop. She approached her sister's husband with a glare and thought to stare him down—she, a silly girl nowhere near his social stature or even his height—and insult him: "You're lucky to have my sister for your wife, Lowell. I know you'll be good to her. I'll be watching_ very_ closely."

She insulted her aunt next, the poor spinster: "There is no prince, Aunt Imogene. You need to talk to someone about these delusions." Delusions! Who was she to speak of delusions? She was speaking of deciding to do with her life what she wished and believed she could reject the marriage proposal of a lord and insult all manners of people and not be punished for it! She was expecting to be _understood!_ Who was _she_ to speak of_ delusions!_

And she glared at the wealthy woman whose son she'd just turned down—why, she was a_ pauper _compared to this lady and her son!—and, bringing up a conversation the woman had long forgotten and cared nothing for, the girl expressed her _indignation_ for this woman's opinion, which mattered far more than hers—who was she to have opinions, really?: "I happen to love rabbits, especially white ones."

Was there no stop to this madness? The girl was in a pitiable state of affairs _anyway, _without any of this, and yet there she stood, coated with filth with an unavoidable scratch on her arm, expressing opinions and throwing insults around as if she thought herself higher than all those present. Some more women had fainted, and the rest of the crowd looked upon this wretched girl with growing hostility in their eyes, and the whispers of "She's _mad_" became more fiercely exclaimed. And yet she noticed none of it, and instead moved on to her mother—her poor, pitiable mother, whose reputation was forever shamed by this outrageous display—to whom she said consolingly, "Don't worry, Mother. I'll find something useful to do with my life."

Something _useful! _The people's eyes flashed with anger and some with fear; this was nothing they'd ever thought they'd have the misfortune to experience!

"You two remind me of some funny boys I met in a dream," the foolish girl told the Chattaway sisters. So the girl had _dreams,_ too! And expressed them freely, as if anyone so much as wanted to know…

"You've left me out."

She turned to face now the father of the lord she'd rejected, and smiled at him, as if he were her dearest friend, as if she didn't realize how bitterly sarcastic his words had been.

"No I haven't, sir," she told him, adding impudently: "You and I have business to discuss."

_Business! _What_ business_ had _she_ to discuss with _him?_ Was she completely _daft_ to the fact that she'd just _turned down his son's marriage proposal?_

Somehow, his contemptuous "And what might_ that_ be?" registered in her mind as "Shall we, ah, speak in the study?" And instead of answering him, she merely grinned and turned to walk through the crowd, now livid and completely mortified, which parted for her in jumps of terror at her approach.

What finally sealed her fate and, consequently, the padlock on her ward's door, was not something she next _said, _but rather what she next _did_—

"Oh, and one more thing." She hiked up her skirts, showing her legs which were _without stockings,_ and moved her feet about in the most absurd and puzzling way, in the oddest… _movement_—surely they wouldn't call it a _dance_—they'd ever seen. What were in reality gasps of horror she somehow heard as approving giggles, and she turned on her heel and strode through the throng of appalled people, her head held high, as if she'd made herself so very proud.

The pride wouldn't last long. For, in fact, she would that very hour find herself accused of and taken away on a charge of madness, and that very night find herself wrapped tightly in white and thrown into a dark room with stone walls she could not yet see. Her ferocious and loud resistance in the process had gotten her additionally deemed harmful and out of control, which landed her in the sorry state of solitary confinement.

It was when she screamed until her throat was torn that she began to cry, and it was when she cried that she finally put herself to sleep, and it was when she slept that she dreamed of the madman she for whom she had fallen, and had out of fear abandoned.


	2. Chapter One

_What am I supposed to do _  
_when the best part of me was always you? And_  
_what am I supposed to say _  
_when I'm all choked up that you're okay?_  
_I'm falling to pieces, yeah,_  
_I'm falling to pieces..._

_-The Script, "Breakeven"  
_

—

Chapter One

—

Tarrant's POV.

_"Hatter."_

Her voice, so soothing and musical to my (rather sensitive) ears, filled my dreams and rang through my head.

_"Hatter…"_

Why did she call me that, anyway? _Hatter._ Mally was the only one who had ever called me_ Hatter _instead of by my real name, Tarrant—and somehow I had never really noticed. But it was something strange that _she_—with her lovely hazel eyes and tangled mass of yellow hair, and a beauty mark resting just above those soft… inviting… _lips_—would address me as Hatter, and not as Tarrant.

In my half-dreaming state, I wondered what my name would sound like coming from those lovely lips, that milky voice—

—to no avail; her image rose in my vision and she said merely, "Hatter? What's wrong?"

My imagination could not form it. Why, oh _why _had she never called me Tarrant? If only the name's mere utterance had slipped her tongue just once! Then I might relish and replay the sound in my mind forever. The sound of her saying my name.

"Hatter!"

_"Alice—"_

My eyes flew open and I sat upright, so sure I had heard her _here,_ safely home in Underland where she belonged, safely home with_ me_—but I was alone, very alone, in my bed in my more-than-modest home in Witzend. Confusion enveloped me like a blanket as I scanned the bedroom, and I became disoriented: what was I looking for again?

And then I remembered._ Alice._ The little girl who had intrigued me so on her first visit to my tea party, and then had returned as very much _not _a little girl, whose smile put a warm melting feeling in my chest. Where, oh where was Alice?

"She shall be waiting for me outside," I realized, my eyes widening in urgency. "She shall chide me most certainly for being so late!" In a flash, I was out of my bed and straightening my coat, in which I had slept ("Oh, she shall even more scold me for sleeping in my clothes!"), and fumbling frantically for my Hat, which I placed primly atop my untamable orange crown.

It was when and only when I passed by a mirror on my way out and saw the Hat on my head that it began to dawn on me. My heart sank and my reflection's eyes filled with panic. Alice—where was Alice?

_Where was my Alice?_

Shaking my head in an attempt to clear it, I smiled tensely and said to myself, "Fret not, Tarrant. Remember not what you'd just said? You must be more mad than you thought! Alice is outside waiting for you at the tea-table. You are only making yourself further late." It sounded logical, so why did my voice shake?

Staring at the mirror did me no good, and I had to throw a blanket over it to stop its torment. It had seemed to laugh at me. It knew something I didn't—something about Alice, something very important about Alice.

I burst through my front door and let it slam shut behind me. To my great surprise and, somehow, not surprisingly at all, there were only two I could see at my tea-table: the regulars, Mallymkin, snoring away in a cup on its side, and Thackery, twitching in his sleep as he sat in his favorite chair with his head and arms sprawled out on the table.

Alice was not there.

Alice was not there, because Alice had drunk the Jabberwock blood and returned home to the Otherworld.

My feet, which I thought were rooted to the spot, somehow detached themselves from the ground and took me to my chair at the head of the table. Automatically I sat, my eyes wide in horror and my entire body numbing as I realized and remembered what had really happened.

Alice was gone… Alice was gone, and she was most certainly never coming back. If she'd planned a return, why would she have gone in the first place?

If she'd loved me, why would she have left at all?

My fists suddenly came down on the table so hard some of the tableware clattered to the ground and smashed. Mally and Thackery woke with a start and both began to cry out in confusion.

"Slurvish fool!" I exclaimed, my eyes darkening and my voice rising. "Shukm-juggling slurking urpal—slackush scrum!"

"Hatta!" Mally scurried across the tea-table to me, her voice and eyes full of concern. "Hatta!"

_"Hatter!"_

I froze. My pupils dilated and my mouth was slightly open. My anger at myself receded as visions of Alice from the past few days flashed before my eyes—my dear, sweet Alice, who always somehow managed to pull me back to my senses.

Why was I so angry? I looked at my hands curiously, helplessly, as if they might contain the answer to my question. Why had I just yelled at myself, very audibly, using very foul words? Why was I so angry at myself? For forgetting Alice was gone? Or for ever hoping she would love me back? For hoping she even _could _love me back?

I examined the bandage on my left thumb, and the various thimbles adorning my fingertips. My hands were scarred, the red of my many blisters from years and years of hatmaking glaring back at me from my frighteningly pale skin. The hands were just a fraction of my appearance, which I knew looked just as frightfully odd. I remembered the mirror I'd covered, and how it had mocked me so; it knew how horrifying and mad I was. I felt myself overcome yet again with emotion.

"That's right," I murmured aloud to myself, still staring at my palms. "How could she love…_this_…?"

Suddenly my palms were coming toward my face, and my eyes were burning and wet, and before I could stop either of them, they were connected, and I was leaning over the table, pressing the backs of my hands against its surface as thick tears pooled into my palms. I was overwhelmed with grief, and the pain was unbearable—there was both a shattering sensation and a dull ache in my breast, as if I had been stabbed and were bleeding to death. And yet no blood was flowing true from any wound, as none were there; and yet I could _feel _it. I could_ feel _the tearing beneath my ribcage, the fiery pain blooming from that source and burning me from the inside—I would not have been surprised to find smoke rising from my ears. And yet no smoke was there…

I was vaguely aware of Mally's troubled voice attempting to console me, but I couldn't tell you what it was she said. Finally her voice died away completely, and she and Thackery settled into silence.

Alice had left me_ again_—and how could I be certain she would ever return? None of this meant anything to her, that much was clear; for, if it _had_ meant anything, why ever would she leave it?

_I_ meant nothing to her.

_"There are questions I have to answer,"_ she'd told me._ "Things I have to do."_

And yet I could have sworn it was a lie. It had to be. How could it be that she had business elsewhere? What questions had she to answer that could not be answered here? Here—with me?

She'd drunk that blasted Jabberwock blood and then, of all things, she'd _smiled_ at me. Smiled, actually _smiled_ at me, as if she had not just struck my cheek with her ugly gesture and her senseless_ choice._

Yes, she'd _chosen_ to return to… wherever it was she was from. There was nothing here forcing her to stay, of course, but there wasn't anything I could fathom forcing her to leave.

Unless…

…there was someone else.

_No, _I told myself sharply. _You don't know that. You don't know that, and you'll never know that, so might as well believe there is no one._

Though I was often called mad—a title I'd had to settle into, really; I'd never thought myself truly to be _mad,_ and yet if everyone else thought I was… it only made sense I would eventually believe them—I knew I was not stupid. A fool, perhaps, and naïve at best, but not stupid. I could see how plain it was. Why else would Alice return to her world? There were people there—nay,_ one_ person, I've little doubt—for whom she cared and loved, and wanted to spend her life with. Not the strange world she'd thought was only a dream. Certainly not the silly, mad hatter who had believed in her when no one else did and loved her with a fierce gentleness that was foreign to him. No, it was not _me_ she loved or cared for, not _me_ she wanted to spend her life with. Never_ me._

That was obvious. It was the truth, and it made sense.

So why did it hurt so much?

—

It occurred to me later that I didn't remember much of what had happened yesterday after Alice left. I supposed I blocked it out. I didn't remember coming home at all.

I wasn't too sure how long I sat like that, hunched over with my face in my hands. I'd stopped crying at some point and probably fell asleep as well, for my arms had become stiff. I pulled myself upright and then slumped back against the chair. Mally and Thackery were nowhere to be seen, which was just as well, as I wasn't at all in the mood for explaining myself to them. With surprisingly shaky hands, I reached for a teapot and poured myself a cup of tea. No steam came from the drink, because it was cold—and ordinarily, I would not drink _cold _tea, what with the horrible taste and all, but I simply could not care less at the moment, and nursed the cold tea for a good twenty minutes, forcing myself to savor the terribly foul flavor. What was the word again?—for people made themselves do the things they disliked? 'Twas an 'M' word, I knew… Aloud, I mused over various M-words until I came across the proper one: "Masochist." Had I not been in so distraught a mood, I would surely have laughed at myself. Me, a masochist—the idea was laughable. And all I was doing was forcing dreadful tea upon myself, which was hardly masochistic. Wasn't it?

It was then that I remembered calling myself slurvish earlier, during my nonsensical outburst of anger. Slurvish, meaning selfish—about what could I have possibly been selfish?

"I wanted to keep her all to myself," I mumbled, looking into what remained in the cup in my hands. "Does that make me so slurvish? Because I wanted her to stay here with me instead of going home to her friends and family?" I tried to scowl into the cup, but such an expression would not be made; my face fell only into a rather pitiable frown, and I could again feel the threat of tears stinging the back of my eyes. "How could I?" My voice was barely a whisper, and I could speak no more. How could have I ever wished for even one moment for Alice to give up everything she loved just for me? I blinked, and a tear or two spilled onto my cheek. To have asked such a thing of Alice—_"You could stay"_—was an insult greater than the foulest of words. Had she said yes, and stayed, would it have been out of love for me, or out of reluctance to hurt me? Would she have stayed against her will, effectively making her my prisoner?

No—of course not. Alice would do nothing against her will, for her will was strong. But had she recognized the insult? (Of course she did; she's Alice!) Had she left _because_ I'd had the gall to ask something so very slurvish?

_You'll go mad thinking like that, _I thought, and then laughed humorlessly. "Aren't I already?" I asked myself. "Look at me…talking to myself. Better lock yourself away now, Tarrant, before you become a hazard to others." And then I frowned, a puzzled look on my face.

"You'd better lock yourself away" was what I said.

Locked away?

Locked… away.

_Locked…_

What was this odd sensation in my mind? Why did I feel a—a sort of _tickle,_ almost, somewhere in my head? 'Locked away…' what was so special about that?

And yet, it began to trouble me deeply, and I sat there, brooding, for hours.


	3. Chapter Two

Author's Note: Sorry for the excessive delay in updating (some seven months, was it? Yikes... well... I've done worse :P) but life is busy, I'm lazy, and this story was not really my number one priority. However, I'm going to try and get back on this, so I can just finish it and be done with it (and satisfy a friend of mine so she quits badgering me to update! Haha). I apologize for the pitiful length of this chapter; most of it had been written months ago, and I like where I left it off, so chapter two is short. Yup.

For those foolish enough to have any expectations of me (including myself), there should be another update next week.

Length regardless, I hope you enjoy, and I hope I'm not yet again making empty promises to my beloved readers.

—

_I've seen you hanging round_  
_This darkness where I'm bound_  
_And this black hole I've dug for me_  
_And silently within_  
_With hands touching skin_  
_The shock breaks my disease_  
_And I can breathe_

_- Fuel, "Falls On Me"_

—

Chapter Two

—

Alice's POV.

My shoes were gone.

That was the first thing I thought when I woke up the morning after my detainment. My shoes were gone, and I was clothed in the sparsest of garments—a pitiable excuse for a dress, it was: paper-thin and ratty, with several holes and tears. I dimly recalled being strapped into a straitjacket before being transported here, though I wasn't sure how I ended up being removed from it and redressed into these rags.

The second thing I noticed after I was done assessing my state of dress was the size of my little white room. It was not quite large enough for me to lie down properly, though I could stand. It was, essentially, a box, just barely big enough for a single person. At first I was overwhelmed with an enormous sense of claustrophobia, and began to hyperventilate, and then to scream. But when nothing happened and no one came, I eventually silenced myself and settled into a sort of jumpy state of calm.

My only source of light came from a tiny window near the ceiling with iron bars. I was not quite tall enough to see out it, but I could hear not a sound, not even the chirp of a bird. Panic settled around me again like a blanket and I paced 'round and 'round the inside of my little box, going faster and faster until I threw myself against the door and pounded on it with all my might, screaming and clawing at the door until my throat hurt and my fingers began to bleed. I started to slam my shoulder against the door, over and over again with the futile hope of breaking it down, until my shoulder was naught but a large, tender bruise and I was lost for energy. I slid against the wall to the floor and began to weep.

It was some time after I'd gripped my legs to my chest and began to rock, humming myself a lullaby to try to calm the panic, when a small, rectangular slot at the bottom of the door slid to the right. My eyes widened in excitement, and I began to yell, "Oh, finally—let me out of here!" I was about to dive for the opening and pry my fingers through it when a tray was pushed through and the slot was slammed shut. I heard a latch click and when I reached for the slot and tried to open it, to no avail, I realized with another wave of tears that it was locked.

After my sobs had ceased, I noticed again the tray, and looked to inspect its contents. There wasn't much. My stomach let out an almost animalistic groan—when had I last gone so long without food?—how long _had _I gone without food?—in both hunger and agony as I daintily picked up my one slice of bread and frowned at the fuzzy green circles decorating its surface. I sniffed it, and wrinkled my nose in disgust, dropping it back on the tray beside what appeared to be a glass of milk. Thirsty as I was, I drank the entire one-gulp portion in precisely one gulp, and only after I'd drunk it did I realize with a shudder that it was curdled. My breathing hitched and my stomach retched, and I vomited onto the floor before I could stop myself.

That was when it registered in my mind that the floor did not really exist in the sense of an actual _floor_—it was just dirt, and nothing else.

I looked up and around my little box, fresh tears streaming down my cheeks. "Why?" I asked the emptiness. "Why am I in here? What did I do wrong?" I bit down on my lip to try and stop it from trembling so much. "There… there must be some mistake," I reasoned. "Y-yes; next time that latch opens, I'll tell whoever's behind the door that there's been a mistake, and that I need to be getting home where I belong—and, and they will understand. They'll let me out. Yes… yes, that's right…"

Feeling slightly better, I took a few deep breaths and managed to become calmer than I'd been since I woke. I let out a small laugh, and smiled to myself, saying, "Silly Alice… no need to be so frightened and manic. You'll be out of here in no time. No time at all…" And I leaned back against the white wall and slipped back into my dreams.

—

"There was a man, a… a sort of funny man, really. He had this absolutely ludicrous hair, a red-orange like fire, you know, and—and his eyes!" I leaned forward, as if I were telling a wild secret. "They changed_ color,_ you see! And _not _in the same sense of hazel eyes changing from brown to green or pale eyes from grey to blue, no, no—_his _eyes, understand, went from a—are you ready? you're hearing this?—went from a greenish _yellow_—like a cat's, yes, exactly!—to a rusty orange, same hue as, no different than his hair! Oh! It's madness, is it not? Absolute… Would you like another scone, Father? More tea?"

My companion smiled, but said nothing, and I gleefully poured him another cup and gave him another biscuit. His face was wreathed in shadow but his hand appeared when it moved to take the cup. It was an odd hand with thimbles and bandages on the fingers, and his gloves were tattered and stained.

While I could not see his face, I was fully certain this man was my father, the acclaimed Charles Kingsley. We'd had many conversations like this throughout my young childhood. I took note that I was wearing one of my favorite childhood outfits, yet I could not tell you what it looked like, for it seemed to slip my mind as soon as I saw it. The man before me, so obviously my father, brought the teacup to his lips and took a sip.

"You like it, don't you?" I asked pleasantly. "I knew you would. This is a very interesting sort of tea… rather _unique,_ really… I tried it once while I was abroad, and it was so lovely, I simply had to purchase it… the scones, I'm afraid, are quite terrible, or at least I think so."

The man bowed his head, enough for a trickle of light to flash on his brilliant orange hair before he pulled back. I frowned. "Father," I asked, "whatever have you done with your hair?"

"Alice?"

We both turned our heads. The speaker was my mother, whose eyes were ringed with red from tears. Her hands were folded in front of her, and she stood as though the weight of the world was borne on her shoulders. I stood instantly, knocking over my teacup, and ran to her.

"Mother, what is wrong?" I reached for her hands. "Has something happened?"

"Oh, Alice," she said, her voice trembling with the sobs she fought to restrain. "Your father… has…"

I shook my head, understanding, but disbelieving. "No, no, Mother, you are incorrect. Look, do you see?" I turned and gestured to the table. "Father and I are having tea now. He is fine and well."

She looked, and sighed. "Alice, darling… there is no one there with you." She then began to weep heavily.

I frowned. "What are you talking about?" I demanded. "_Look!_ Don't you see him? He is right _there!_"

But I was startled to find no one there. The table was clear of everything, even its cloth, save for a small bit of paper in its center. The sound of my mother faded, and when I looked back she was gone, too. Curiously, and terribly confused, I walked over to the table and snatched up the paper. On it in small, lovely cursive were the words: _You should have looked back._

And the world shattered around me.

—

Tarrant's POV.

She had addressed me as her father in the dream.

That was really all I could remember when I awoke, bent slightly over in my chair, still at my tea-table. "Oh, silly me," I muttered, "I must have fallen asleep."

I stretched my arms and legs in front of me and let out a groan. When I relaxed, I noticed something odd about my hands. Something very odd, though I could not quite say what for a moment. And then it struck me: clutched for dear life in my left hand was a wad of paper, and a quill in my right.


	4. Chapter Three

Author's Note: All righty, so two and a half weeks isn't so bad. Here's another update :) I'm out of town next week, and super busy this week, so don't expect anything till about the second week of March. Y'know, so I have that first week to work on it, lol. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy this one! Happy Valentine's Day! :3

—

_I'm standing still_  
_Move so peaceful_  
_I can't pretend_  
_That I'm fine_  
_I get so ill, crazy agitated_  
_When I'm not really dying_

_-Plumb, "I Can't Do This"_

—

Chapter Three

—

Tarrant's POV.

Upon investigation of the paper, I found it to be completely blank on both sides. There was no sign of an inkwell nearby, either, yet the tip of the quill in my hand was damp with ink and had stained my hand.

"How peculiar!" I said, rather amused by all this, though a dark itch burned at the back of my mind. "It seems my sleeping self decided to write myself a note. Perhaps to remind myself of something. But what?" At that, I laughed. "Ah, well, since I did not successfully write it down, it seems I will never know!"

Though I'd laughed initially, my amusement quickly receded. There was something not quite right about all this. And I'd been dreaming—but of what? I couldn't remember… Alice, perhaps?

I sat upright. "Yes. Yes, that's absolutely right."

I _had_ dreamt of Alice, of this I was certain, but for the life of me, I could not remember anything else concerning the dream. Nor could I make any connection between my dreaming of Alice and my waking to find writing utensils in my clutches, if there even was a connection at all.

Oddly, I stuffed both the paper and quill into my coat pocket, uncaring if the quill stained my coat and refusing to ask any questions regarding my behavior. Mally and Thackery were gone still, and some part of me—the non-nonsense part, I'd assume—wondered where in the world they could have run off to. In any case, I was up from the table and walking. It was sometime in the early morning, and I determined that, on foot as I was, I would arrive in Marmoreal sometime around noontime tomorrow, provided I didn't dillydally and wasn't ambushed somehow along the way.

It was nearly half a turn of the hour hand later when I, shrouded within the thicket of the Tulgey Wood, was indeed ambushed—by the voice of a familiar and terribly insufferable blue cat.

"Going for a stroll, Tarrant?" he asked lazily, fluidly solidifying in the air beside me. He grinned his huge, toothy grin at me, a laugh playing in his enormous eyes. "Your pace seems rather quick for a simple promenade through the wood, and you seem to walk with purpose. Are you journeying? Wherever might you be going on such a pretty day?"

I stared at him in wonder, and replied simply, "Why, to visit Mirana, of course!" as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, and yet I had had no idea myself that that was my destination.

"The White Queen?" The cat looked amused, though not very surprised. "How delightful. Perhaps I shall join you?" He rolled over in the air onto his back, his tail curling up languidly. "I do enjoy the company of the White Queen, truly… wonderful woman, isn't she?"

"Mm, why yes, she is indeed," I muttered, suddenly irritated and impatient. I continued to push on my way. He followed me.

"But really, Tarrant," said the stupid creature, plainly not getting the hint that I desired peace and silence at this very moment, "why are you _really _making this sudden trip to see the Queen, hm? It isn't like you to be so… determinedly impulsive." He finished off the sentence with a tone of distaste, and I was not pleased.

"I fail to see how that is any business of yours, Chess." I stepped over a stump and my frown deepened. My hands curled nervously. Why was I going to see Mirana? What business had I with her today? Did I have any? I wasn't sure. To seek answers, perhaps. Yes, that was most likely. But answers to what? My memory was fading.

The cat was relentless. "This wouldn't have anything to do with Alice… by any chance?" he asked. At the sound of her name, which he had rather drawn out on the soft 's' sound, I stopped dead in my tracks and whirled round. Cheshire vanished during my turn and infuriatingly reappeared behind me, forcing me to turn again to face the way I'd faced originally.

"How _dare _you!" I declared, incredulous. "What has Alice got to do with anything?"

His lids drooped, as if he were bored. "If she hasn't anything to do with anything," he reasoned slowly, "then what was your meaning behind that 'how dare you'? How dare I what? Mention her? Speak her name?"

"Don't—!" I clenched my fists up in the air by my cheeks and struggled to control my anger. I glared at him fiercely. My voice began to shift, and my words thickened. "Don't _you _bluddy well know know how I feel about her! The lass is—" I shook my head. "No, listen here, ye ken? Tha' wee li'le lass, she has absolutely nothin' to do with anythin'. Do ye ken why, ye stupid cat? She _lef',_ see, and she will never come back. So don' you be going and sayin' things that don' mean anythin', because—" I shook my head again, and all at once my rage vanished and I was left with only a hollow emptiness. I hung my head.

"No," I said sadly, my voice normal once more, "she left. This hasn't got anything to do with… her."

He was silent for a moment, and then another. He was silent until I couldn't take it anymore. "Will you _say _something!" I burst, scrambling furiously around in my various pockets. I grabbed hold at last of the paper and quill and held them up in the air. "This is why!" I cried, looking around wildly for him. "Do you see this, Cheshire?" He appeared to have disappeared, but I knew better. "Chess! What have I got here?" I shook my fist, clenched around the items, in the air.

"Goodness, Tarrant, control yourself, please." The cat rolled into view and held his chin in his paw. "Is this honestly what you've got yourself upset over? Writing utensils? You must be madder than popularly believed."

"No, no, Chess, don't you see?" I opened my hand to reveal the objects. "I woke with these in hand. It appears I may have thought to write something, but there is nothing on the paper."

He frowned at me. "And?"

"'And?'" I repeated, frowning myself. "What do you mean, 'and?' Of course, this is clearly related to the dream I had whilst dozing off just awhile back."

"Clearly."

"And, and…" I paused, searching frantically for the words. "And… don't you see? It's so plain… this has great significant importance. I must report it to the White Queen at once." I nodded, as if it all made perfect sense now, and began to walk on.

He looked on after me. "Yes," he muttered, following me unhurriedly. "Of course. How could I be so daft? Silly me."

—

Mirana's POV.

Though I was doing everything I could to hide it, I knew everyone already knew how agitated I was daily becoming. And yet there seemed no reason for it. After all, I was back in my rightful place as Queen of Underland, and my sister was safely removed from all civilization, and peace had returned to the land. So why wasn't I excited as I should've been?

I couldn't tell anymore how long ago I had won back my throne. I could have consulted a calendar, a clock, or someone with clearer thinking, but I did not. Time seemed a foreign concept to me now. I was sure I was going mad.

That thought reminded me of my dear friend, Tarrant Hightopp. I had offered him an apartment in the palace, or in Marmoreal at the very least, with his old position as the Royal Hatter, but he declined.

"That is very kind of you, Mirana," he had said, using my first name as we were in private, "and I thank you. It is a tremendous honor. However…" Here his face had fallen, and he looked wearier than I'd ever seen him. He'd taken a shallow, trembling sigh, and, his voice weak, told me, "There is nothing for me here anymore."

I had understood immediately, of course, though whether or not he did was a mystery. He had given up his Hat, and I had had it delivered back to his home in Witzend. It was likely he would not remember having relinquished it to me, and would wear it without memory of what it meant to him. I smiled wryly at the thought. Of course he would know. It would kill him.

"The Hat means nothing to me," he'd said there on the battlefield where he'd collapsed. "Burn it for all I care."

"Oh, Tarrant," I whispered to myself, gazing sadly out the window. "I should never have let her go."

The girl had meant everything to him; I knew that now. Understandably, I had been too preoccupied with winning the war against my sister and regaining my kingdom to have seen what had developed between them. Yet if I'd only taken a moment to look, and to see, I could have stopped her from fading away before his eyes, never to return. But when I finally did, it was too late. She had already drunk the Jabberwocky blood, and her intents were set. It was only then, as I looked on and saw the way he looked at her, that I knew I had made a mistake.

He had given her one last smile before she left, a heartbroken smile with tears in his eyes, and when she was gone, so was he. His spirit was irrevocably broken. He had fallen in love with her, and she took his heart and soul with her when she left. I couldn't help but feel completely responsible, though I knew that a mind made up would find a way. She would have found another way home, and he would still have died. It had been a matter of when, not if.

As lost in my dwellings as I was, it took a moment for me to notice out my window Tarrant himself wandering up the path to my palace. My eyes widened in surprise, and then I hurried off to go and greet him, the guilt still eating me alive, as I assumed it always would.

I met him along the marble path. He seemed both pleased and confused to see me. "Tarrant," I said gently, somehow relieved. "What brings you here? I am so happy to see you again."

"Your Majesty," he replied as he bowed, sweeping his Hat off his head. I eyed it warily, as if it were the highly volatile creature, fragile from heartbreak and madness, rather than the man holding it. "I have a matter I wish to discuss with you."

My smile failed for just a moment, but it was so slight and fleeting he would likely dismiss it as not having happened at all, if he noticed it. "Of course," I said, waving my arm gracefully behind me. "Shall we?"

I led him through the palace halls to my private study, where we had had many a chat over tea and cakes. Those days were so long ago I scarcely believed they were real. It seemed more likely I had only dreamed them. I took a seat in one of the great lounge chairs and gestured to the one across from it, in which he hastily sat down.

"Now, what did you wish to discuss with me?" I asked pleasantly, her hands resting lightly in her lap. Though I was surely the picture of poise, inside I was crumbling with anxiety.

He reached into one of his pockets and withdrew what looked to be a quill pen and a scrap bit of paper. He laid them on the low table between us. I looked at them curiously, and then up at him. What could these ordinary objects possibly mean?

"I woke yesterday with both of these clutched in my hands," he explained, "yet I did not fall asleep that way. One might assume, as I did, that I had thought to write myself a note during my sleep, though I cannot stomach such an explanation under the circumstances."

He glanced at me, probably expecting I might say something. I hardly knew what I could possibly say at this moment, being so thoroughly confused as I was, so I merely nodded, and he continued.

"The pen's tip, while dry now, was wet with ink when I woke, but there was no well in sight. I suppose it might have been a practical joke pulled on me by Mally or Thackery, but I didn't know where they were nor do I see any sense behind such an insignificant trick… The most important part, you see, is that I had dreamed of Alice before I woke to this conundrum."

_Ah. Of course._ I was not surprised that he was here because of Alice, but I _was,_ I found, oddly disappointed. What had I expected? That he would be all right, heart mended, through with mourning, and ask if my offer to employ him here still stood? I felt utterly foolish; I _had _hoped for that.

"Alice?" I asked delicately, careful to keep my tone light. I could not bear it if he broke down again, and I knew I was treading dangerous water now. Even saying her name could be unwise… Still, I pressed, "What sort of dream did you have about… Alice?"

He frowned then, and scratched at his wrist. "Well, you see, Your Majesty—"

_"Tarrant,"_ I interrupted curtly, then restrained. I had told him a million and one times to call me by my name, but this was no time to be brusque. I gave him a relaxed smile. "Mirana, please. We are in privacy here, and you are my dearest friend. Formalities are unnecessary. You know that."

"Mm, yes…" he mumbled, appearing suddenly uncomfortable. "I-In any case, ehm, Mirana, the unfortunate part of this is that I do not remember much of the dream."

"I see." I paused, then asked, "So you came all the way out here on foot just to tell me about a dream you had? Surely there is more?"

He furrowed his brow intently. His eyes moved from side to side, and I concluded that he was trying to remember.

I was right. "There— there was a tea-table, yes," he exclaimed, a little loudly. "Yes, yes, we, we were having tea, yes, eh… she offered me another scone, ah… she addressed me as her father." He looked at me then, and grinned sheepishly, taking me entirely by surprise. "I think she was a bit befuddled, really."

I didn't know what to say.

"A-anyhow," he went on, "someone said her name and she went away from the table… and… and she didn't look back." He paused, seeming unsure as to what he was saying. "She… she should have looked back," he finished quietly. A melancholy fell over him then, and he stared vacantly at the ground.

Carefully, I reached out and took the paper in my hand. I looked it over, but there was nothing on it to suggest it had been written on. Curiosity getting the best of me, I stood and went to my great cherrywood desk in the corner of the room and picked up an inkwell from it. Returning to the lounge chair, I opened the well and dipped his quill in it, then let it drip once onto the paper. The black spot stared back at me as if demanding, _What in the world were you expecting?_

I sat back for a moment and closed my eyes, slightly put off. What could any of this possibly mean? On the one hand, there could be absolutely no significance whatsoever to any of this, and Tarrant was simply mad. While this seemed the most logical option, I knew better. Tarrant would not have made his way all the way here for simple company, let alone to play a useless joke. Which left the other hand, on which there was definite importance in this matter, and I just needed to think of what that importance could be.

He was so quiet and so still that I almost forgot he was even there. When I opened my eyes again, he was looking at me patiently. I glanced at his person then, for no particular reason, and caught glimpse of his pockets. I frowned slightly as a silly idea took hold. Could he have something else stashed away on him that he didn't even realize he had?

"Tarrant?" I asked finally, not terribly sure where I was going with this. "Could you… empty out all of your pockets, please?" Thinking of potential secret pockets he might forget to open or miss, I added quickly, "And I do mean _all _of them."

Nodding abruptly, he sat up straight and began rummaging through all his pockets, from his trousers to under his sleeves to the inside and outside of his coat. Any contents he found were placed on the table, a slowly growing pile of thimbles, bits of thread, and pushpins. Until at last he grabbed something hidden rather deep in his coat, and froze at the feel of it. My eyes widened with his, and I found myself perched on the edge of my seat. His face was pale as ashes.

"What is it?" I asked. "What did you find?"

The look of horror faded from his eyes, but not the shock as he slowly, mechanically extracted the item in question. It was clenched in his fist, and I had to coax him to open his hand and show it to me. When he did, I understood his shock, and felt it myself. For in his hand, hidden on his person all this time, was the vial of Jabberwocky blood I had given to Alice, with still a good three or four purple drops staring mockingly up at me.


End file.
